


Rehabilitating

by TalentedLoser



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Gen, Implied Lockbell, References to Drugs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-07
Updated: 2014-09-07
Packaged: 2018-02-16 11:02:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2267310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TalentedLoser/pseuds/TalentedLoser
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It started wrong, all wrong, everything was wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong...</p><p>She did it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rehabilitating

She is the first to arrive in the early morning.

Her heels enter and stop, then nothing but her steady breathing. He stands in front of the window across the room, tapping against the pane. She notices the bare walls surrounding him, the clean, untouched sheets that lay on his bed. She wonders if he has slept, but she doesn’t ask. She figures she will know in due time. 

“Did you know they will not allow me to have a pen? As though I will—”

“It’s against regulations, Sherlock. For safety.”

Sherlock continues to tap against the pane. It is a constant rate—not slow nor fast. As though he were a metronome creating the beats of their harmonious state. What music would be playing in Sherlock Holmes’ mind, she wonders. Classical, she agrees on. 

Sherlock grunts. 

“As though I’d be that rash, Watson.”

“You already were.”

He turns his head. She merely stares. She sees the dark circles under his eyes. She was right. 

He does not turn away at first; he does not know when she will be back. She is standing near the door, purse by her side, nothing in her hands. Brief, he thinks, and turns back to the outside world. 

She wants to ask questions. She takes a step forward.

The tapping continues.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

He tenses up.

The tapping starts to quicken. 

“Haven’t you a date to attend to?”

She takes another step.

“Sherlock—”

He turns his head. They both stop. “Wouldn’t want to be late.”

They lock eyes. One holds anger, fear, intolerance; the other holds pity, empathy, anger. She wants to ask questions, but nothing more can be said.

She is the first to leave in silence.

\- - - 

He is the next to show later in a morning. (A. What day was it? Fourth.)

A nurse has to show him to the room, as he is unfamiliar with the surroundings. “Holmes,” the man says. 

The only thing the man can see in the room is a bed lit under a lamp, and the man residing in the room. Sherlock sits in a chair across the room. He does not get up.  
The door closes. “What are you doing sitting in the dark like this?”

Sherlock shrugs. “Rather comfortable in this setting, Captain.”

“Told you to call me Gregson, Sherlock.”

“Formality.”

Gregson sits on his bed. Sherlock lightly taps against the armchairs as he looks at the Captain. Same black coat, badge on underneath, formally suited—his arms are rested on his knees, hands folded, slumped back. Cases, he thinks, and looks back to the blank wall next to the Captain. 

“How are you?”

The question startles Sherlock. He looks back to the Captain. 

“I am not in need of pity.”

“Simple question.”

“Reasonable answer.”

Gregson sighs. He brings a hand to his face and rubs his eyes. He is frustrated. Sherlock, too.

“You need advice for a case, don’t you?”

“That’s not—”

“True? Spare me.”

Gregson rises from the bed. 

“We’re worried about you, Sherlock! You go and pull—”

Sherlock rises from the chair. 

“What, don't believe me again? (Again.) Can’t your precious precinct figure out a case yet without me holding their hand?”

Gregson stares down at Sherlock. Sherlock does the same to Gregson.

Sherlock doesn’t remember what happened after that. His face hurts, though, and there’s a door slamming shut. 

He is the first to leave in anger.

\- - - 

Visiting hours are restricted after a brief incident with him and a nurse. Sherlock lays in bed, wrists locked, looking out the other window into the hallway. Someone is there. He should tell someone. They won't believe him anyway. It’s hazy.

He is alone. 

\- - - 

She comes in the middle of the night.

No one knows she visited, and no one will know. They think he’s alone. He will tell them he was alone. That’s all, doctor, officer, nurse, captain—

She blends in with the shadows on the wall, yet he sees her entire outline tower over his bed. He does not have to see her eyes to know she is staring right into his. 

“You could easily escape, you know. From those cuffs and this place.”

She’s right.

“So why not?”

He closes his eyes. 

“I hate seeing you like this, Sherlock.”

“Then why come at all?”

He can hear her smile in her voice.

“Because I care too much.”

“Is that what it’s called? Caring?”

He hears her heels move, and feels her hand on top of his. He twitches. 

“Why won’t you come with me?”

He doesn’t answer. She should know the answer. He will not answer. His mouth feels dry. He needs something, anything, give him something, anything—

She is the first to leave in disappointment.

\- - - 

She comes back near dusk.

He goes in and out. 

“How is he?” 

“He’ll crash.”

He knows it is not possible for the ceiling to spin, for the woman next to him to blur in and out of reality, but she is, and the ceiling is, so it must be real. He feels something on his forehead—cloth. It’s warm, or maybe he’s warm. He can’t tell anymore. Everything is drenched. 

His heart is racing. How many days has it been? Eight? (Eight.)

“Wa—”

He’s sure she’s looking at him. 

“Sherlock?”

“Wats—”

The cloth wipes against his forehead.

“I’m right here.”

Of course she is. Of course.

Where would he be without her? 

(Here.)

She is the first to leave without his knowing.

\- - - 

He feels better.

Much better. 

He wonders if the nurse was lying.

Probably.

\- - - 

Visiting hours are restricted again. 

It started wrong, all wrong, everything was wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong—

He yells. A woman appears in his room. Who is she? Why is she here? Who is she? Who is she? Who is she? Who is she? Who is she? Who is she? Who is she? Who is she? Who is she? Who is she? Who is she? Who is she? Who is she? Who is she? He doesn’t know her. He doesn’t know her. She’s no one. She is someone, anyone, who is she? 

His whole body feels like it’s on fire. It’s her fault. Her fault. She did it. She did it. She did it. She did it. She did it. She did it. She did it. She did it. She did it. She did it. She did it. She is the one to blame, not him, not him, not him him him her her her her her her her her her—

She did it.

TV cracks.

Yelling. 

Glass.

Blood.

Heaving.

Yelling.

Tired.

Numb.

Beeping.

Sleep.

\- - - 

He’s told visitors came. 

He doesn’t remember who or when.

He thought they were nightmares.

(Maybe they were.)

\- - - 

He is the first thing seen when awoken at twilight.

Visiting hours should be over. The lamp above him is on. It’s bright. He’s sweating again. 

“Hey.”

It’s hushed. The man leans forward in the chair. Sherlock breathes in. 

“How you feelin’?”

He doesn’t answer. He groans. The man has a smirk on his face. He’s amused. Good, he thinks. But Sherlock’s tired. He doesn’t want to fall asleep, though. He’s trying desperately to keep his eyes open. First time he sees this man in how many days? (Thirteen.) It’s the drugs, the drugs are getting to him, they’re in him again, please don’t worry, he’s okay, okay, all okay now.

The man places his hand over Sherlock’s. He doesn’t twitch. 

He wants to apologize. 

He didn’t mean to.

It was her.

The man looks him in the eyes, understands.

“It’s alright, Sherlock. It's alright. I know. We all do.”

He says something else.

Sherlock doesn't hear him. He thinks he feels something push into his veins, but when he looks at his arm, there's nothing but an old (fresh) wound.

Then he feels miserable. He closes his eyes. 

He is the first to leave him alone.

\- - - 

He attends group therapy for the first time.

He doesn’t remember much of it.

Except one part. 

“Will you use again, Sherlock?”

He doesn’t know.

But it’s alright.

**Author's Note:**

> I've been wanting to do something like this for a while. Not too angsty, but not too happy either. If you have questions/concerns about the fic (like what's actually happening or what happened), you may comment here, or send an ask to my tumblr (themadkingreigns). 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed.


End file.
